First Steps Toward the Title (2)

Regrettably, no particularly promising chances came our way after scoring the opening goal in the first half.

Although my strike had visibly shaken Middlesbrough's goalkeeper, Graham Coppell, their veteran center-back, quickly rallied his teammates. He got them mentally refocused to maintain their rigid defensive structure, making it painfully difficult to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unearth another opening.

Still, seeing them concede corner kicks far more frequently than before suggested the psychological blow hadn't been entirely negligible. Unfortunately, since I wasn't Lee Han, there were no towering headed goals to be had.

Middlesbrough proved that their second-place spot in the league table hadn't been won on a gamble. Prioritizing long-term stability over reckless counter-thrusts, they refused to concede another goal before the break. And so, the first half drew quietly to a close.

"In the second half, we're dropping our line slightly."

With Middlesbrough currently trailing, they were the ones under pressure to chase the game. Observing their posture, Manager Gordon chose a pragmatic approach. It wasn't an outright retreat, merely shifting a notch or two backward on the tactical board.

Considering the sheer strain placed on our center-backs during the first half, it was a sensible adjustment. Center-backs are human; they need to catch their breath too. If they had sprinted all through the first half snuffing out counters and could still replicate that in the second, with all due respect, they wouldn't still be playing for Luton Town.

"Dominic, and Han." Manager Gordon looked between the two of us as he continued. "The moment the ball drops into the center circle, you two break forward."

The magnets representing our positions slid up the board.

"Whether we win possession or they do, just sprint toward their goal."

"So whoever wins the ball will read the situation and lob it forward for us?"

"I love that you two catch on so quickly."

Manager Gordon wanted a sharp, concise counterattack, leaving the final execution entirely to us. It was merely a slight pruning of our usual tactical playbook. Not to mention our midfield and attacking ranks, even Jackson at center-back possessed an exceptional long-range distribution, so the squad nodded with unwavering confidence.

Surveying our determined faces, the manager pressed on with his instructions. "If Middlesbrough keep their line pinned deep, fine. But getting battered around like this on their own home turf brings immense pressure. Eventually, their backline will be forced to step up. When that happens, Lee Han, your role in evading their midfielders and threading passes will be critical."

"Understood. I'll carry it out to the letter."

"Good. Final checks, and let's get back onto the pitch!"

If we truly wanted to claim victory, the second half had to be far fiercer than the first.

The second half unfolded exactly as the manager had predicted.

While Middlesbrough ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠maintained their foundational shape, their entire formation surged forward during attacking phases. The two rows of their defensive bus advancing in lockstep looked almost like a carbon copy of our first-half tactics.

With both sides knowing each other's game plans inside out, the second half devolved into an unforgiving, cutthroat slugfest. Cross, ground ball, shot, corner kick, save, second ball, another corner kick, clearance, counterattack, and back to yet another corner. Caught in an endless cycle that repeated every few minutes, a slight dip in concentration from our squad was perhaps inevitable.

Around the eightieth minute, a momentary lapse triggered disastrous consequences.

"Arta Mitchell! A stroke of absolute luck!"

"He just swung wildly on the turn, and... wow, how many bodies did that deflect off?"

"Caroming like a billiard ball off three defenders before brushing the keeper's fingertips and slipping into the net!"

It was a preposterous goal, yet the digit beside the home side's name on the scoreboard didn't magically revert to zero. And truthfully, everyone on the pitch knew it: having grown complacent after repeatedly frustrating Middlesbrough's attacks, we had failed to track Arta Mitchell tightly enough. Their repeated failures had only meant they were carving out chances and seizing the tempo. We had let our guard down.

Still, there's time.

Considering the minutes lost to fouls and corner kicks, stoppage time would provide plenty of runway to take back the lead. Besides, we were simply back to square one. All we had to do was score again. Fortunately, neither I nor any of the Luton Town players on that pitch were the sort to crumble under pressure.

"It's only an equalizer! Are you lot going to keep sleepwalking out there?!"

"Get on your feet right now and sort your positions out!"

Manager Gordon's bellow from the technical area and Captain Teddy's blistering roar snapped everyone back into focus. We planted our boots firmly into the turf once more.

Before the restart, I leaned in toward Dominic and shot a subtle signal to our fullbacks. "Dominic, remember what the gaffer said?"

"Run."

"Right. The second we kick off and you tap it to me, just sprint."

Middlesbrough's defensive line was already holding an impeccably straight offside trap even before the whistle blew. Every time I see a backline aligned so rigidly, an irresistible impulse takes over: I just have to shatter it with Line Breaking.

Tweet!

The moment the whistle sounded, Dominic grazed the ball with the faintest touch and took off at a full sprint. Simultaneously, Wright and Mick, the two fullbacks I had cued earlier, bolted forward along the flanks.

The sudden surge of three runners pulled Middlesbrough's shape apart, carving out just enough room for me to maneuver. Driving the ball straight from the dead center of the circle, I charged headlong at their midfield.

"What the hell is he—"

Their front line had already drifted deep into our half, so I bypassed them without a second thought. Threading a pass through their fractured midfield line proved effortless.

"Good ball!"

Mick gathered my lofted pass on the gallop, whipping his foot across the ball with heavy spin to skim it low toward the charging Dominic. Surging into the final third, Dominic channeled his Brazilian flair to cushion the slightly heavy ball with his back to goal.

"Now!"

Spotting me darting diagonally at full tilt to beat the offside trap, Dominic flicked the ball cleanly through his marker's legs with his backheel—an instinctive combination we had drilled endlessly back in EFL League One.

The ball dropped slightly behind my stride. Twisting my ankle and swinging my foot back, I scooped Dominic's pass forward on the half-turn. The ball checked up exquisitely in the corridor between me and the goalkeeper. Imbued with backspin from the angle of my touch, it halted its forward momentum and rolled neatly back into my stride. The goalkeeper's face contorted as if he had swallowed a wasp.

"Why are you charging out again?"

Though fuming, he kept his arms tucked high, wary of another chip over his head. How touching to see him learn from past trauma. Too bad for him, that wasn't where I was aiming.

Thump!

The ball rocketed directly between his open legs. He snapped his thighs shut in desperation, but the ball had already breached him. Driven cleanly with the instep, it tore across the dew-slicked turf and slammed into the back of the net.

"Goal! It's a goal!! Astonishing team chemistry, capped by a magical touch and clinical finish from Lee Han! Absolute perfection!"

"Barely five minutes after conceding the equalizer, Luton Town reclaim the lead!"

"Words simply fail to describe this! With a single first touch, he baits the goalkeeper off his line, and the ball checks its spin to settle right at his feet!"

"Whether entirely intentional or pure genius, it is an extraordinary piece of football!"

I took a slow, deliberate victory stroll past the Middlesbrough supporters. Part of it was a quiet protest against Middlesbrough, who had parked the bus all through the first half only to muster an attack once they were staring down defeat. What sin had these supporters committed to be subjected to such dreadful, cowardly football for ninety minutes?

Naturally, the furious home crowd didn't realize I was standing up for them, hurling twice as much rubbish as they had in the first half. But their vitriol only sweetened the moment.

I swear, I did it for your sake.

Truly, I did.

The remaining minutes were an absolute brawl. Middlesbrough threw every man forward with frantic desperation, their shirts battered and mud-stained enough to serve as floor rags. Their final barrage was enough to send a chill down anyone's spine.

Fortunately, our composure held firm.

In the dying seconds of stoppage time, a low free kick whipped into our box. The instant I cushioned it on my chest and booted it clear half a beat early, the referee's whistle echoed across the stadium.

Full time.

At the shrill sound, players from both Luton Town and Middlesbrough collapsed onto the turf. Caked in dirt from head to toe, lying flat on our backs hardly made a difference. The only distinction was that our lads, despite being utterly spent, were grinning from ear to ear.

"Luton Town conquer second-placed Middlesbrough away from home, resolutely cementing their grip at the summit of the table!"

"While the early stages of the first half were somewhat tedious, the second half delivered a spectacular, end-to-end clash!"

"Indeed! And Lee Han's performance today plunged Middlesbrough into utter chaos!"

Naturally, the Man of the Match honors were mine. While our center-backs Andre and Jackson had put on a defensive masterclass, I had bagged a brace and orchestrated the winning counterattack. Leaving me without the trophy would have sparked a riot.

"You've emerged victorious in this crucial clash between first and second place. How are you feeling right now?" the pitchside reporter asked.

"Couldn't be better, honestly." A conventional opening.

"There was a heated exchange with Middlesbrough goalkeeper Bryn Convey after your first-half goal. Was there any particular issue?"

"Just minor banter. He picked a fight, so I humiliated him with two goals."

"...Ah. Right."

The reporter covering Luton Town looked taken aback by the unusually blunt response. Typically, Lee Han was notorious for offering textbook, almost boringly diplomatic answers; hearing such raw swagger left the interviewer stunned.

"And frankly, Middlesbrough ought to be embarrassed. How can the second-placed team in the league play football like that?"

"......"

"I have no desire to sit through that brand of cowardly, park-the-bus football ever again. If they bring the same tactics next time, I'll take it as an open invitation to beat them all over again."

Truth be told, I was so exhausted that I blurted out whatever crossed my mind. But regardless of my true motives, the press room instantly ignited.

"W-Wait. Are you openly criticizing Middlesbrough's tactics?"

"Yes. Supporters take time out of their busy lives to travel to stadiums and turn on their televisions to watch thrilling football, not to endure ninety minutes of dreary, uninspired defending."

"As a striker, will you be searching for a way to break down such defensive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠setups in the future?"

"I am the answer."

Without another word, I held up the MOTM trophy for the cameras. Whether because they found no flaw in my logic or were simply struck dumb, no further questions followed. Taking advantage of the stunned silence, I slipped out of the interview room.